that's the thing about rain, it demands to be felt
by procras-tea-nation
Summary: Dean Winchester really fucking hates the rain. Castiel wants to turn that idea around. Mindless fluffy ficlet. No warnings. Just love.


Dean Winchester has cut the same forearm for ten years and watched himself bleed. Dean Winchester has been bled _on_. He has been covered in Leviathan goo, sewage, and endless supplies of holy water. The man has even taken a cumshot, or two—understatement of the year. And yet. Dean Winchester really fucking hates the rain.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean pants, wildly, "just poof us out of here." An innocent walk alongside the rural trail, which was completely Castiel's idea, now had Dean running for cover. Adding to his frustration is the sight of Castiel standing still, palms up and out. He calls Castiel's name once more.

Dean's smiling but solemnity anchors his eyes onto Castiel, whose neck tips back gracefully, body arching open wide to receive the rain. "No, let's—stay for a little bit," Castiel surmises, eyes closed. Dean falters. He frowns, holding the collar of his jacket over his head, for no other reason than he considers the touch of rain a nuisance. A droplet hits his cheek, and Dean reels like he's been smacked. Castiel laughs at him under his breath, and Dean tears his hands away from his collar.

"If I get sick, I'm blaming it on your angel ass," Dean threatens, but it's kind of a poor excuse for a threat where Castiel is concerned. Dean shifts, blankly looking at Castiel, counting seconds between raindrops as to when "a little bit" is going to be over. Castiel can feel Dean's arms cross; his toes clench and unclench in his boots; the shiver travelling up his spine. "Relax, Dean. You should appreciate the rain, more." His celestial intelligence, in the past, made Castiel seem like a pompous dick. Nowadays it hushes Dean's ego faster than a punch on the arm from Sammy ever could.

Dean tries to follow Castiel's lead. Tilt his chin up. The dude looks like he's inhaling the rain through his nose. "How the hell is he not soaked," Dean wonders, and it's just a few seconds before lightning flashes in his eyes, and he sees the outline of wings—full and black and _strong, _and they're angling over Castiel as an immense shadow. His own personal umbrella. How convenient.

"Oh, now that's not even _close_ to being fair," Dean shouts over the crack of thunder. Raindrops are growing heavier, their impact sounding like the dull-thud march of soldiers. "Must be easy to enjoy the rain when you've got those things covering you!" Castiel opens his eyes, and turns to look at Dean. His face is unreadable.

Dean wavers, for no other reason than the intent of Castiel's stare is always too much, somehow. Dean always has to look away, always has to laugh under his breath. Deflect, deflect, deflect. He can't process the intensity, and he thanks God—not literally, of course—when the next strip of lightning flashes, because all of a sudden the sound of the raindrops collapsing onto Castiel's frame is enough to crack the stare. An unnatural amount of rain surrounds Castiel, fading gradually, until the regular rhythm beats on his shoulders. Castiel smiles, and it's the closet Dean's ever seen someone be to unbridled happiness. Growls of thunder roll at his feet.

"I always wait for the rain to collect before I tuck those away," Castiel says through his lips, edging around an uncontainable smile, and Dean melts down like wax, tension escaping through a sigh. Fucking angels, man.

Castiel shyly peers up at Dean, under eyelashes, and takes a step closer. Castiel leans in and whispers like he has a fascinating secret, "At the beginning, there was no rain for some time." Lightning flash. Dean's unacquainted with the tone to Castiel's voice. He barely breathes. Castiel continues, "God originally thought the lakes and streams were going to prove sufficient for plants and life to sustain their growth. Of course, as I'm sure you know, he realized that wasn't true." Thunder, soft, in the distance. Castiel moves closer.

"The first thunderstorm scared many of the animals at first," Castiel laughs, recalling the faces and frightened noises, "but—it was more wonderful than any of them could imagine." Closer, hair sticking to his forehead. A stray raindrop on his lip Dean wants to lick away.

& Castiel keeps looking at Dean like he's the interesting one, and he's never gonna understand that, never gonna pretend he's extraordinary. He's comfortably ordinary. He's just fine the way he is, thank you, he doesn't need anyone to come along and pat his head like he needs their fucking approval.

& Castiel keeps looking at Dean like he's reverent, like he's glowing. "I could hear every thought, Dean," he says low. Closer. There's a light all his own in his eyes. "I heard the thoughts of every living thing that had been screaming for some sort of relief. I suddenly understood, in that moment, what the idea of wanting was." Dean sucks in air, heart thudding hard against his chest. He can feel the presence of Castiel, feel the warmth rolling off his body in waves. Castiel's eyes flicker to Dean's, and they're black and terribly full of familiar wanting, before landing on his lips. Sensory recall. His eyes disappear in the stark whiteness that ripples against the sky.

& Castiel keeps looking at Dean, and he says, "I knew the idea of it," his thumb reaching up to skim Dean's bottom lip, "but not how it felt." Rumbling overhead. Close. There's another raindrop on Castiel's lip again, constantly replaced by another, and before Dean knows what to do or how to do it he's kissing Castiel. Hard. Determined. He tastes the rainwater on his tongue, sweet and pure. Dean sharply inhales against him, and Castiel's hand grabs a fistful of Dean's hair possessively. Dean's hands fall to Castiel's lower back and pull the two together, hips angling quickly to fit. Dean breaks to breathe, mouth open wide, and Castiel rises up to meet him, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth and sucking. Dean's hands press in. Castiel's tongue and teeth and hands and rain and light and sky. Dean's rain-based opinion is absolutely destroyed and replaced by another—another involving Castiel's lips on his neck and hips grinding tight, hard. Castiel is warm and wet pressed against Dean's chest, and Dean just has to break to laugh, he has to. Castiel smiles because Dean is smiling, but softly asks, "What?" Dean noses Castiel's cheek, still laughing low, "It's just, I—I didn't think it was possible for rain to make someone horny." They hold still, downpour framing their figures graciously. Castiel beams, "Well, now you know."

& Castiel and Dean kiss like they're in one of those romantic comedies, like they're in love, because they are.


End file.
